You Should See The Other Guy's Foot

Yesterday, I got kicked in the face by a 6'6" moron who probably still thinks he was playing soccer at the time. Apparently, he had decided it was a good idea to try to kick a ball that was thrown in onto the top of my head, which, let me emphasize, is six feet off the ground. Unfortunately, his foot didn't quite make it to the ball when my face got in its way.

High kick, referee?

The first words out of his mouth were, "Oh...fuck." They were quick words, too, given that I hadn't quite gathered what had happened yet. The people who saw my face seemed to think my injury was pretty disturbing. One of them even told me--in between expletives--that my skin was "detached," which conjures up images of dangling, at least in my mind. Meanwhile, I felt more anger and shock than pain, because (a) the blow I received was rather numbing, and (b) why the fuck did that idiot kick me in the face? The throw-in was clearly directed at me and I hardly had to move to head it. Where did he come from? What was his foot doing that high in the air?

But I think mainly I just felt offended to be on the same field as this classless, talentless neanderthal. You should have seen it my stony, condemning gaze or in the quietly offended manner with which I walked off the field. I think I was actually more stunned by his idiocy than his cleats.

Several hours of waiting room, waiting in rooms, and four stitches later, I emerged from the ER, living testament to the truth that very tall people have no business playing soccer. Now, the marginally visible underside of my chin is permanently scarred just in time for senior formal and graduation. And I can no longer number myself among the beautiful people.

You can imagine my distress when I learned that this same jackass, who had made no effort to assist in the repair of or even merely assess the damage he had done to my countenance, lacked the dignity to remove himself from the game for the egregious red-card foul he had committed and furthermore went on later to tackle our keeper with his cleats up. Down a player, my team went on to tie, victim to two last minute goals by a member of our own ranks who had defected to the other team at the beginning of the game.


The moral?
Don't play soccer with fuckbots.

Dinner Menu

Check out this dinner menu:

Hoisin Sauce
Spanish Rice
Grilled Asparagus with Tofu
Pasta Alfredo
Chicken Teriyaki

My chef is crazy.

Easter

I am willing to bet that, if there is a God, He doesn't like his followers.

Dinner, Drinking, and Games

On the way to dinner, the girls introduced themselves as Piara and Ilika (which later turned out to be Chiara and Erika). Chiara, who had visited Florence before, lead us to a pasta bar, near our hostel. We continued our small talk and learned they were both art history majors in their last year of school, that it is difficult to get art grants, and that the citizens of Italy have no hope for their country (neither would I). Brent made a joke that despite the bad economy, everything was great for Italians because they had won the World Cup. Several minutes of translating later, we finally conveyed the joke to one of them, who was able to explain it to the other one, at which point we all laughed together, for separate reasons, of course.

Throughout our conversation, each time Brent or I said something, the girls would hold a forum between themselves to decide what we had said and how to respond. More often than not, the girls would forget that they were supposed to be translating and just continue their conversation without us for several minutes. Meanwhile Brent and I just looked at each other and laughed about how fast they were speaking. Eventually they would remmeber us and remember our question.

I asked them if they wanted to drink wine, to which they answered first No and then "We mean yes." It was confusing but also the answer we wanted to hear. Ordering wine took some time, however, as Brent and I left it to the Italians to pick a good wine. Erika said she knew about wines from her region but not this one and then asked the waitress some questions about the heaviness of each wine, which the waitress had to check with a coworker. I have gathered that Italians are very partial to their forums.

When it came time to order food Brent and I did a very thorough job of butchering the Italian language. But the food was good and it was fun conversing in broken English. After dinner we ordered a round of Limoncello instead of coffee. Brent liked it very much, especially because it gave him the opportunity to sip a liquer daintily, which is his modus operandi when it comes to drinking.

After dinner we headed back to our hostel and finagled them into...

...a game of cards. We played Capitalism first, which they got a huge kick out of. "Only Americans would play a card game called Kapitalismus." We quickly switched to a simpler game of theirs called "Merde," which of course translates to "Shit!"

To play shit, you reduce the deck to the four A, K, Q, and J, deal four cards to each player and pass one card to the left synchronously until one player has four of a kind (the shit), yells "Shit!", and slaps his/her hand in the middle. The other players have to slap in too and the last player to do so receives however many kilos of shit are dictated by drawing a card from the non-played portion deck.

We played until Brent had accumulated about 18kg of shit, at which point they felt bad for beating us and wished we had had two decks so we could play Machiavelli. So I whipped out my second deck (sorry Scott) and we played Machiavelli, which I soon remembered I had played before, though it didn't help me in the least when they slaughtered us over and over.

By The Hair of Zeus's Testicles

3/29/2009 7:05pm
Return Train to Rome

The highlight of our trip was definitely the two Italian girls who strolled into our room in Florence one evening as I was massaging my testicles.

Not that they saw--it was cold and I was under the covers. They greeted us with a casual "ciao," to which Brent replied with the stone-faced silence of a man sorting photos as if his life depended on it. After a few minutes, I started up a conversation with the more attractive of the pair, who despite her protestation that she did not speak English, was about as capable of communicating as Brent and I are in German. To help her, I made it a point to speak slowly and choose my words carefully, while Brent, the shy big bear that he is, mumbled a lot and used colloquialisms she would obviously not understand (e.g. "we're just chilling," "what classes are you taking next quarter," and "the noob was camping shotty 'til I no-scoped him in the dome.") When the other girl returned to the room, she also joined our conversation, despite her even more adamant protestation of not speaking English.

I waited for the opportune moment--just as they were about to unpack their food--to pop the question: "Would you like to have dinner with us?"--and quickly added, "We'll pay," just in case that was an issue. Brent claims he was expecting them to reject me, but I can't imagine a scenario where that's possible. Especially given the way they would spend their evening otherwise.

FACT: Pompei Was Buried In Lava Because A Roman Train Got Lost And Crashed Into Mount Vesuvius

3/29/2009 6:40pm
Napoli Train Station

In the ruins of Pompei I managed to entertain myself for quite a while by taking exceedingly ridiculous photographs of myself using my camera's 10 second timer. Unfortunately, ten seconds is a very long time to set up a photograph and my camera soon ran out of batteries, at which point I almost broke it with a FINAL PHOTO for the day.

I had poised the camera on a rail that was especially exposed to the wind. No sooner had I posed in the ancient bath when I saw my camera tumble off its perch. Aside from the blind luck with which I navigated to the ruins of Pompei, the next thirty minutes I spent fixing my camera proved to be the highlight of the day.

The ruins themselves were nothing spectacular but may have looked a little better in the sun. However, I was struck on several occasions by thte realization that I was walking through something that was distinctly a city, with streets and houses and shops (presumably). Pompei was rather big.

I also took a brief stroll around Napoli in the vicinity of the station. It had a very sleazy feel to it, though I imagine a rooftop view might have been gorgeous on a better day. A man across from me has an asymmetrical haircut and is dressed in a rainbow striped wife beater. For the past few hours I have been checking my pockets incessantly and staring accusatively at every person I encounter. I am all ready to leave this place.

This just in! Apparently, there are statues with penises in Pompei. Had I hired a tour guide or gathered even the slightest amount of historical information, I might have found them. What a shame.

Never Drive On The Same Road For Too Long. It Might Take You To Rome.

I implore you never to go to Rome. None of the awesome monuments are really worth seeing. It's all a lie. For instance, every photograph you see of the Colosseum is a computer generated picture of what it may have looked like two thousand years ago. The majestic white marble taht you image was lost long ago, revealing a red brick skeleton. Believe me, red brick does not make for an impressive ruin.

I think I have arrived in Napoli. I can't find any signs. After wandering around the train station, I finally deduce that I must be in Napoli, because none of the departing trains are going to Napoli. At least there is a sign for a Bancomat. Actually, there are several signs, not only pointing the way but also indicating the distance. Better than Rome by a mile. Or by however far it is from Rome.

I formulate a new law. The shittiness of a place is inversely proportional to the square of its distance from Rome. It follows, then, that Rome is infinitely shitty.

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road? (To See If The Cars Would Stop For It)

I think, however secretly, I have hated Rome all along. From the moment we arrived. The hostel, which claimed to be 400m from the Termini station, was neither 400m from the station nor a hostel. The weather was very nice, but the city scenery ruined it. At least we had finally learned how to cross the street in Italy, which is simply to stride into the road, without waiting for a crosswalk light or looking to see if cars are coming. As long as you ignore the cars, they will stop for you. But acknowledge them for a second and they won't stop. Sometimes it's a little scary to make the leap of faith, especially given how fast and angry people drive. I am surprised I never saw an accident. Maybe because no one assumes that anyone else is observing the traffic laws, signs, or rules of common sense.

For example, yesterday we saw two police officers who had parked their car in the middle of the road so they could direct traffic around it. The only credit I can give them is that they were doing a better job than my "Beware of Sign" sign, which I had inadvertently managed to place in a spot where it had minimal visibility but maximal damage. It took many casualties and was torn down in rage twice before I retired it.

This City Will Piss In Your Ear and Tell You It's Raining

3/29/2009 1:20pm
Approaching Napoli

I chose the cheap train that leaves 30 minutes before the express and arrives 30 minutes later. The coins in my pocket are sufficient to cover this fare and the my next meal but soon I must find an ATM. After grabbing breakfast (the freshed squeezed OJ is incredible) and a panini for the train, I set off in search of any one of the many ATMs that surely must exist in the MAIN TRAIN STATION of a city with a population of 3 million. Twenty minutes later I have found two machines that dispense STAMPS, a plethora of rental car agencies, and two McDonald's, but no "bancomat." I try outside the station. In the ten minutes it takes to wander in a big square around the station, I have dust blown into my eyes and pass by a sleeping hobo spooning a box of wine. But no ATM anywhere. Everywhere I look, Rome is uglier, dirtier, and more crowded than where I had been looking before.

I return to the station to find my train has been delayed by half an hour! Still no track assignment though. When will it end? I am tired of carrying around my sandwich and eager to sit down and pen my frustration. There is nowhere to sit, wouldn't you know it. I encounter an ATM. Finally! I pull out my wallet and survey the screen. Windows Error. The machine apologizes.

Last night I dreamt I was ambiguously either a robot or a human captive who tried several times and finally succeeded in beating my evil mster/captor to death. He was something of a cyborg and relied on an external breathing apparatus, which I unscrewed when he was down to seal the deal. Then I wrote a lterr to my commander?, relaying that the bad guy was dead, we should land at the next port, Princess Leia/Leiah (which I was equally confused about how to spell in my dream) was alive but pissed (apparently she liked the bad guy), AND everyone should do THE ROBOT (dance)!

I Told You So

3/29/2009 1:00pm
Train to Napoli

Beneath a gray sky, I wandered down the dirty street, most shops not yet open despite the time (11am) and booked the first hotel I could find. The receptionist was very amicable.
-- The ocean emerges outside my window. I am reminded that the Italy I prefer lies outside the cities. Perhaps when I learn a little Italian. --
Next, I returned to the train station (sans baggage) to reserve seats on a train to Napoli. In Italy, you have to buy train tickets and seat reservations separately, despite the fact that many trains require reservations. Italian law mandates that one piece of paper should never be allowed to possess too great a power. I am reminded of the lack of day passes for the buses in Venice. At first I thought I was just sick of traveling but now I am convinced I am just sick of traveling in Italy.

At least the food is good. Even the cheap shitty food.

1:15pm I notice the window of my train has been graffitied.

The Beginning of the End

3/29/2009 12:30pm
Train to Napoli

Brent and I parted ways unceremoniously at the airport, after which I headed to the ticket counter to try to get a standby flight. The clerk seemed to think I was an idiot for waiting so long to change my flight. But who would have guessed I would hate Rome so much? In the end, I left the airport unsuccessful but with plenty of time to visit Pompei and book a hotel near the station.

On the way back to the Roma Termini station, I was presented with another opportunity to buy a Leonardo Express ticket. But after watching the machine steal half of the $40euros the man in front of me inserted, I just headed straight for the train, infuriated taht Italians could make the simplest things so difficult. Rome continued to plummet in my books. (Perhaps this statement alludes to a happy ending? No! Let me assure you: even now, 6,240 miles away and with a week to reflect on my experiences, I still detest Rome with a passion.

Thankfully no one checked our tickets. I am beginning to think the Leonardo Express is intend to be free... (Just imagine this brilliant idea: we can make the Leo Express free for Italian citizens by using the money tourists lose when they try to pay for their tickets!). The train to Napoli I am currently on has just stopped in a dark tunnel. No announcement has been made to explain this odd behavior. A fat Italian man snores so loudly that he wakes himself. The train tilts towad him and his wife, who is an even bigger ORCA. At last we continue.

Where The Sidewalk Ends... Lies A Rocky Road

3/29/2009 11:40am
Roma Termini Station

I hate Rome. I hate it so much that nothing I am capable of writing is sufficient to express my outrage. The city is hideous, crowded, and dirty. Modern buildings are more dilapidated than the ruins. Every surface is covered in graffiti. The national monuments are unimpressive. And even the people who aren't tourist behave like idiots. Clearly, the Fall of Rome never ended.

Sometime in the night, Rome was subject to a random fluctuation in time, which I'm assuming is a common occurrence, given that it wasn't mentioned in the news. Or else our hostel manager wound our watches back one hour in our sleep. I wouldn't even be surprised if the city just agreed to shift time forward one hour, just so they could get off of work early. I think the eleven to noon/ three to five work schedule is a little stressful on the Italians.

Due to this time rift, we were a little confused as to why the trains didn't start running until 7:20am but easily chalked it up to the laziness of Italians. After correcting our watches to account for this phenomenon, Brent walked to the ticket vending machine, where he struggled and failed twice to purchase tickets, despite the fact that the menus were in English and step-by-step directions on how to purchase tickets to the Airport were posted in plain site for the benefit of American tourists. In disbelief that the machine would simply refuse to sell us tickets, I went over myself to investigate.

The first thing I noticed was a second machine that was out of service. Given the abundance of out-of-service devices in Rome, I have come to surmise that Italan law might mandate that at least 50% of machines must be in disrepair at any given time, a rule strictly enforced in the capital city. Unlike the myth that there are always exactly 13 stigmatics in the world , the dysfunction of Italian machines is easily verified.

Next, I discovered that though clients were offered the choice of first and second class seating, only first class was actually available--a concept so profound Brent could not fathom it. Here I pause to quote Einstein: the definition of insanity is "doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results."

So close to acquiring the tickets, I eagerly inserted a $20euro bill only to have it spat out over and over. I stepped into the nearby shop to ask for change and was affirmed in my assumption that the machine only accepted change. Of course, when I fed it change,it just gobbled it up without noticing. When I sent a second coin in after the first one and still nothing happened, I have up in frustration, four Euros poorer and with an intractable number of coins in my hand.

We ended up boarding the train without tickets, Brent a little concerned, I perfectly content to tell the conductor where I put my ticket if he dared ask. Given the money I lost, Brent considers his inability to read directions a victory. Given my current blood pressure, I am inclined to agree. Nothing works in this city.